


Mutually assured seduction

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Role-Playing Game, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthea sends Molly to find Irene and everyone gets more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many months again, [mosellegreen](http://mosellegreen.livejournal.com/) mentioned on a Summer of Sherlockmas thread that her BBC Sherlock OT3 was Molly/Anthea/Irene, which got me thinking and eventually, writing. Thanks to her for the prompt, and extra thanks for her comments on an earlier draft of this.

Molly once dated a mass murderer; she's still half in love with a high-functioning sociopath. But as she checks through her wardrobe once again, in the vague hope that she'll find something suitable to wear for tonight, she realises that this may well be her worst encounter ever. The only comfort, she supposes, is that technically it's not a date. It's a mission.

***

_Two weeks earlier_

It's Molly's first shift back at the morgue after the New Year, which means seeing all the people for whom 2010 ended really, really badly. It's stupid to make anything more of someone dying during the holidays than at any other time, but she's already a bit on edge when she gets to Barts. And the first person she sees there is Mycroft Holmes' assistant, checking her phone. All long legs and ease, leaning against the wall outside the entrance as if she's been there for hours. Molly's brain goes into guilty overdrive. What hasn't she done that she was supposed to, what had she done that she's been told not to?

Anthea looks up. "Hi, Molly. Mr Holmes asked me to have a word with you." She's smiling at Molly. Molly's met her four or five times and Anthea always smiles warmly at her. She must be a naturally happy person, which you wouldn't expect from someone working for Mycroft Holmes.

"Come in," Molly says, leading Anthea into the morgue. Despite the chill, she can feel herself getting hot and bothered already. "Make yourself at home. Sorry it's so cold, only it's better for the bodies. The dead bodies, I mean. You've been here before, so you're used to them, I guess." Even when Mycroft's not here, just remembering him can reduce her to incoherence. She wakes up at night worrying about the polite threats he made to her ten days ago across the corpse of Irene Adler. _But I haven't told anybody about what happened, so why are the Secret Service back?_

"It's fine," says Anthea and smiles again. "I came to ask for your help." There's a particular warmth in her posh voice today, as if she's the head girl, trying to boost everyone's morale.

"Me?" Molly asks in surprise.

"We need you to do something for us. Something very important."

"What is it?" Molly tries to sound casual and knows she sounds like a worried mouse.

"Irene Adler isn't dead."

 _Then whose body did I cut up last week?_ She can't say that. "Oh. Good for her."

"It must be a shock for you, Molly." Anthea's big grey eyes gaze into Molly's. "It certainly was for us."

Molly doesn't know what to say. She _never_ knows what to say, but it's particularly hard to make any sensible comments when someone's just come back from the dead.

"Irene's in possession of some extremely sensitive government information," Anthea goes on. "We think _you_ can help us find her."

"Why me?"

"We need someone we can trust. Irene's got the police in her pocket." Anthea smiles a sad, brave smile. "We can't even be sure of our own people. But I told Mr Holmes we could rely on you." Her eyes search Molly's face hopefully. "Will you help us?"

Molly knows she's being manipulated and she still lets it happen. Because that's just the way it is and always will be. She wants people – Anthea – to like her and so she does what she's asked.

"What do you need me to do?" she says, and Anthea's smile this time lights up her face.

***

Molly can't help feeling that just wandering round London asking for Irene is a bit lacking in subtlety. Though as Anthea sits in Molly's office and explains, she makes the idea sound almost convincing

"We've cut off Irene's funding," she tells Molly cheerily, "and there's only one way she knows to get money. Besides, she enjoys her job. She'll be missing the chance to play games with someone."

"But I'm a _girl_ ," Molly protests.

"Irene's always had clients of both sexes. Many of them referred to her via contacts in clubs. It's one angle and we're trying others. But Mr Holmes decided this was worth a go if we could find the right person to send."

"I'm not into...that sort of thing. Bondage and scolding." Why would anyone _want_ to be hurt or humiliated?

"According to our sources, Irene particularly enjoys inexperienced clients," Anthea says. "Someone to be moulded the way she wants. But don't worry; if you do find her, we'll intervene before things go too far." She pulls out her phone and looks down at if for a moment. And then she smiles sideways at Molly, her hands poised on the keyboard, and adds:

"It's a big thing to ask, of course. If you feel it's too risky– "

"I'll do it," Molly says hastily, because she's quite brave really, and it's not as if going round London clubs is really that taxing an assignment. Why shouldn't she be a glamorous secret agent for once in her life?

*** 

By Day 11, Molly realises just how big a mistake she's made. She feels less like James Bond and more like M, although she probably looks considerably less appealing than Judi Dench by now. Every night she's sent to a string of bars and clubs and she's growing to hate them. She's fed up with men who wear high heels better than she does, and women who grope her, and if she has to hear "Valerie" many more times she may scream. Not that anyone would notice if she did, because most of the bars she goes to are far too noisy. She is tired and she hates _people_ and she just wants a quiet night at home with her cat.

But the Secret Service – Anthea – are relying on her, so she sticks gel heels in her fancy shoes and refreshes her lipstick and then heads off to the next venue on her list. She has a routine now. Order a vodka and orange juice, then chat to the bar staff. After that, look for anyone who might be a regular, or any particularly glamorous women. Somewhere, there must be _someone_ who knows Irene, knows where she is.

This is supposed to be a gay bar, but she suspects that there are quite a lot of straight tourists in here tonight to gawp. Sure enough, after she tells the blond barman with the piercings that she's looking for The Woman and he says he can't help, a man in an unflattering T-shirt comes and stands next to her.

"I know the woman you're after," he announces, edging closer as he speaks. "She's over there. Why don't you go and ask her for a dance, and then you can both come back to my place?"

Molly makes it a rule never to take more than one sip of her vodka and orange in each of the night's venues. It seems a shame, but better that than be drunk on duty. Abruptly she decides this time she's not going to waste the drink and tips it over the irritating man's T-shirt, before hurrying away. She's moving quickly, but she suddenly realises that someone is blocking her path. A Grace Jones look-alike, and hasn't she seen the woman somewhere before, in one of the many other clubs she's been to?

"Looking for someone, darling?" the woman asks in a voice that's pure East End.

"The Woman," Molly yells above the noise. She expects the normal reply of _What woman?_ But instead the other woman takes her by the arm and says. "Come over here, where we can talk."

It's fractionally quieter over in the corner Molly's taken to. Not-Grace-Jones looks down at her fiercely and asks: "Why do you wanna find her?"

Molly's got her cue at last; she mustn't mess this up.

"I've done something terrible," she says, and she's _supposed_ to sound nervous at this point, so that's OK. "I've done something so bad, and I have to pay for it."

"How much would you pay?"

"Anything," she says. _Sound desperate_ ¸ Anthea had told her. _Sound like a woman who wants to be punished_.

"What's your name?" There's no sympathy from the woman, just hard, clever eyes.

"Minnie."

"Minnie what?"

"Minnie Cooper." It's a stupid alias. She doesn't know why Anthea told her to use it. Not-Grace-Jones smiles a merciless smile.

"Go home, Miss Cooper. You're not going to find the woman you want here." She turns and swaggers off through the crowds.

***

Molly leaves the bar and heads for the phone box she passed earlier. Landlines are much harder to intercept, apparently.

"I may have had a contact," she tells the voice at the other end of the phone. "But I think they're onto me."

The voice tonight is another posh-sounding woman, but slightly Scottish: McAnthea? "Leave things for tonight," she tells Molly. "We'll assess the situation."

Molly hopes she hasn't made a terrible mistake, but she's mostly just relieved that she can get home before midnight.

***

Molly stumbles wearily into work the next day – why has she never realised before how much a double life takes out of you? – and finds an e-mail message waiting for her from "MsWhippy@gmail.com":

 _7.30 p.m. Friday 21 st, Dorchester Hotel. Seven hundred pounds cash down._  
 _PS: You should delete your browser history_.

Molly is guiltily aware that she spends too many lunchtimes browsing pictures of baby animals on Tumblr. According to her computer, however, she's spent her recent lunchbreaks looking at Ann Summers bondage wear and writing enthusiastic Amazon reviews of the _Fifty Shades of Grey_ trilogy. She's not just kinky, but a kinky person with no taste. She tries to avoid the Barts IT department anyhow, after all the fallout about Jim last year, but if they see that, what on earth are they going to say about her now? What does "MsWhippy" think she's playing at?

But why would Irene do that? If she wants Molly as a customer, why is she humiliating her _before_ she gets paid? Molly has a sudden horrible suspicion that it's not just Irene Adler that's playing games. She's just about to head out and find a payphone, when her office phone rings.

"Congratulations, Molly," Anthea announces cheerily down the phone. "I knew you could do it."

"Are you reading my e-mails?" Molly demands, and there's a silence at the other end of the phone that says clearly: _Why did it take you so long to realise?_ "And was it...was it your people who did that to my browser?"

"Yeah," says Anthea cheerfully. "But don't worry, it's harmless enough. Not a sackable offence."

 _Just hideously embarrassing_ , Molly thinks, and suddenly realises that's the point. Why she was sent out to wander round clubs under a ridiculous alias.

"Did you always know they'd work out who I was?" she asks. She realises that this is the point where if Anthea was here, she'd be smiling sweetly at her, as if she were a child who'd finally learned to walk.

"Irene's used to looking for lies," Anthea replies. "Once she's spotted them, she'll be too busy congratulating herself to dig deeper. It's a good tactic; just think of–" Her voice cuts off, but Molly's mind is finally starting to follow hers. Anthea was going to say: _Think of Jim Moriarty_. Who fooled Sherlock into thinking that his dirty little secret was being gay, so Sherlock missed that he was a criminal mastermind.

Jim's gone and Molly prays he's never coming back. It's Irene Adler that matters to the Secret Service now. Which means that whether or not the IT department is laughing at her isn't the important thing.

"You need someone to go to the Dorchester, don't you, to meet Irene?" Molly asks, because she agreed to this and she doesn't let people down. "I'll do it, if you want me to."

"Thank you, Molly," Anthea breathes and Molly's heart beats just a little faster. She's still got a mission to carry out and she's going to make Anthea proud of her.

***

Molly wears her Little Black Dress to the Dorchester, even though it's brings back bad memories of the Christmas party at 221B. But you can't meet a dominatrix wearing a cardigan, can you? She sits nervously in the lobby and a beautiful brunette in a chauffeur's uniform comes up to her and tells her there's a car waiting.

Molly tries to work out where they're going, but it's dark outside, and she doesn't have an A to Z in her mind, and all she can say is that they've ended up somewhere terribly posh in what's probably west London. When they get to the house, Irene's chauffeur ushers Molly through a fancy porticoed front door into a spacious hallway. Then Irene stalks down the main stairs, in a Little Black Dress that makes _her_ look like a film star.

"Good evening," Irene says, stopping halfway down. "Have you brought the money?"

Molly nods and fishes in her bag. That's what it's all about for Irene, of course. She holds the bundle of notes out to Irene, but it's the chauffeur who takes it and rapidly counts it.

"Seven hundred pounds, used twenties," she announces.

"Were you followed?" Irene demands.

"No."

Irene smiles an alarming smile at Molly. "One more thing before we start, Molly. Take your clothes off."

"What?"

"You heard me. You can keep your briefs on, if you're feeling shy. But the rest is non-negotiable."

Molly's there to do a job. She undresses hurriedly, conscious of the inadequacies of her own body.

"Bag and jewellery as well," Irene says. "Give everything to Jane and she'll look after it." The chauffeur is already picking up Molly's clothes and packing them carefully into a Harrods carrier bag.  Once Molly's handed over everything, Jane disappears through the front door.

Molly's somewhere unknown in London, with no money or phone, dressed only in lacy briefs. And, as Irene comes down the stairs – revealing her really, really good legs – Molly realises that without her shoes she's also definitely shorter than Irene. If there's any power play going on, Molly's already lost the game.

But Irene suddenly seems to have turned into a gracious hostess.

"Do you need the bathroom?" Irene asks. "Or a drink?" Molly shakes her head, even though her mouth is dry. "Then come through into the drawing room."

It's a drawing room, not a dungeon or a bedroom. It's a _stylish_ drawing room, the sort they have in Sunday supplements, all pale blue and cream.

"Sit there please, Molly," Irene says, pointing to a wing chair placed opposite the big mirror over the fireplace and Molly does so. The cream-coloured leather is soft against her bare back, and it feels nice in a very odd way. She's sitting too low down to see herself in the mirror, but she knows if she could she'd look confused. Well, that's probably how you ought to look in this situation, isn't it? You're supposed to be a submissive little mouse.

  
Irene is going over to a chest of drawers now, pulling out something scarlet. Cord of some kind.

"I'm going to tie you up," she says, and Molly's hands clamp onto the arms of the chair in terror.

"Don't worry," Irene says softly, as she comes to stand in front of Molly. "It won't be for long and I won't make it tight. But I think it's what you need right now, help you to focus." She runs a scarlet-painted fingertip gently over Molly's lips – too thin, not like Irene's generous mouth – and Molly's stomach clenches. She tells herself she can do this. Then Irene's hands – clever and careful – are looping the soft cord round her wrists, tying them to some kind of rings bolted into the arms of the chair. It's not uncomfortable, but she can't get out of the chair until Irene unties her. She is completely at Irene's mercy and her heart is racing at the thought.

"Do you want your ankles tied as well?" Irene asks and Molly's so startled be being _asked_ what she wants that she stutters and gasps: "Yes. I mean no. No, thank you."

Irene smiles and stands in front of Molly. The mirror's behind her and there must be another mirror on the opposite wall, because what Molly can see now is an infinite row of Irenes.

"So, Molly," Irene says, "this evening is all about you. What is it you want me to do?"

"I don't want to be hit," Molly says, trying not to let her voice tremble, because she's heard about Irene and her whip. "Or...or to have to lick your feet or...things like that." She has no idea what people do in these situations. It's all so _wrong_ already. Being tied up in a leather chair, almost naked; that's not the sort of thing normal people do.

The infinite Irenes smile back at her reassuringly. "Of course, I won't hit you, Molly, if you don't like that. And you don't _really_ want to be scolded, because you get that at work, don't you? Whenever something goes wrong at the morgue, it's always you who gets the blame." Her voice is soothing now. "I know what you want, Molly. You want someone to talk to about Sherlock, don't you? How long have you known him?"

 _Answer all her questions_ , Anthea had said. _Don't try and lie to her, she'll spot that at once. And keep her attention. The longer you're with her, the longer we have to find her._

"I met him three years ago, when I first started at the morgue," Molly says, and Irene smiles an encouraging smile, and then goes to sit down on the cream leather sofa, making herself comfortable, as if she's prepared for a long girly chat. Then she asks:

"So what did you think when you first met him?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's tied to a chair in Irene's house, wearing nothing but her knickers, and discussing Sherlock. It's all part of _somebody's_ cunning plan.

Molly slowly stumbles her way through a long account of the last three years. The times when she thinks Sherlock might possibly be interested in her and the times she knows for certain he's not. She knows she's being pathetic and silly, but Irene is listening attentively and her grey eyes are full of sympathy.

"The thing is," Molly says at last, "it's not that I expect Sherlock to pay me attention, because I'm not very important and lots of people don't bother about me. But it's just that sometimes he seems to notice the tiniest thing about me, as if I matter and the next he couldn't care less, it's like I'm not there in the room. So I never know where I am with him."

"That sounds very cruel," Irene replies softly.

"I suppose he is a bit cruel. Or maybe he's just...maybe he can't help it."

"Oh, I think he knows how to behave. He just chooses not to unless it suits him."

"What should I do about him?" It bursts out of Molly suddenly, because Irene knows about sex, she must know what to do. She can tell her how to stop being a hopeless little mouse around Sherlock.

"I think you should forget him," Irene says, standing up, and then she walks towards Molly and gazes down at her with an intent smile. "I think you should find somebody else."

Molly's heart is beating far too fast and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair, because she's has men look at her like that occasionally, but never a woman, and she doesn't want...

The door crashes open behind them and Irene's head whips round. Then her hands lift into the air, and she says:

"Good evening. It's Anthea, isn't it?"

Molly strains to see round the side of the chair, and there Anthea is, in a long-sleeved black jumpsuit that makes her look like an impossibly glamorous cat burglar. Except she's got a gun in her hands, and getting shot is not at all glamorous, as any number of corpses in the morgue have taught Molly. She cowers in the chair, trying to make herself even smaller.

Irene, of course, looks unruffled, even with a gun pointed at her. She puts her hands behind her head and waits as Anthea approaches.

"Hold on, Molly," Anthea says cheerily, flashing her head-girl smile, and then she turns back to Irene. "Your camera phone, please."

Irene smiles lazily. "Did no-one tell you? I sent it to Sherlock."

"But you've retrieved it, haven't you? It's not at 221B any more."

"So it _was_ on your orders that those thugs went there?" Irene asks and Anthea's normal smile – the one that makes you think she's laughing at some secret joke – disappears.

"No, of course not," she replies. "Mr Holmes was furious when he heard. But since the phone's not in Baker Street–"

"You really can't trust the CIA to get anything right, can you?" Irene says, and Molly wonders what on earth she's talking about. "Maybe Mycroft needs to ask his brother for help _nicely_ next time." She pauses and then goes on. "But I presume you've had time to search most of this house already. Do you want to finish the job?" She moves nearer to Anthea, her hands innocently pressed behind her head still. "Can I suggest you check me first?"

Anthea puts away the gun. "Sure." Her hands start a pat-down search of Irene. Or at least Molly thinks that's what she's doing. Though it seems a bit _thorough_ , she thinks, as she watches the slow way in which Anthea's hands trace Irene's contours. Molly waits, breathless, but strangely excited now, for something more to happen. For Irene to try and fight back, to play some trick. But Irene just stands there smirking, and it's Anthea who looks to have lost her cool slightly by the time she's finished.

"Do you want to check the room as well?" Irene asks, but Anthea ignores her, coming to bend over Molly.

"You've been so brave, Molly," she says, as her strong fingers are undoing the cords. Molly's shaking now – delayed reaction, she supposes – and once Anthea's untied her, she's wobbly getting to her feet. Anthea puts her arms round her, helping her up, and Molly clings on, her head against Anthea's warm, safe shoulder.

"You enjoying this, aren't you?" Irene says and Molly's just about to say something when she realises the comment isn't directed at her. That it's not just her breath that is coming too fast, as Anthea's fingers soothingly stroke her bare back.

"Didn't Anthea tell you," Irene says, and even though Molly has her eyes closed, she can _hear_ the smile on her face, "that she and I share similar tastes in women?"

The hands on Molly's back go still, but Molly can feel Anthea's heart still thumping where their bodies are pressed together. She doesn't know what to do, because she obviously shouldn't be hugging Anthea while half-naked if Anthea is a lesbian, in case it gives her the wrong idea. But on the other hand, this feels so good...

"It's OK, Molly." Anthea's voice is soothing. "I'll find you some clothes and then take you back home."

"Do you have to run away so soon?" Irene enquires, like the most polite hostess ever. "Molly's paid for this evening, after all. Well at least _someone_ has. It seems a shame to waste it. Especially when I've got the champagne chilling."

"What are you suggesting?" Anthea says, and her voice is almost back to its normal languor.

"A truce for this evening. You've always wanted a chance to see if you can turn me, haven't you, Anthea? Now might be a good time to try."

"Yeah, it might be fun. But I'll need to take care of Molly first. Give you time to _prepare_ things."

"Oh, I was thinking that Molly should stay too. She hasn't really had much of an evening so far. I think we need to cheer her up."

"I don't want to be tied up again!" Molly blurts out, and that's not what she supposed to say, is it? She's supposed to say she doesn't want any of this _at all_. And she almost certainly doesn't. It's just...

It's just that Irene Adler is _behind_ her now, her fingers running gently along the top edge of Molly's briefs. And Irene's tongue is tracing patterns on the nape of Molly's neck, and somehow that means that Molly is pressing in tighter against Anthea. The warmth of Anthea's taut stomach, the soft curve of her breasts, are so good against Molly's bare skin and she can feel herself becoming wet, as her hips start to rock almost automatically. If only Irene's fingers would travel just a few inches further down...

Her brain belatedly catches up with her body. She is dressed in nothing but her knickers, and she is rubbing herself off against another woman, and this is all absolutely wrong. Her eyes open and she stares up helplessly at Anthea – she could drown in those eyes – and croaks:

"I, I, no..."

Anthea gazes down at her and Molly doesn't know how she understands, but she does. Anthea smiles, and gives her a tiny squeeze and then announces cheerfully:

"I think Molly probably needs a drink, Irene, and I certainly do. Would you like champagne, Molly? Or I'm sure Irene has soft drinks."

"Champagne," Molly says, because she's fed up with orange juice. And suddenly the other women are both stepping away from her, as if they've exchanged some signal.

"I'll find something for Molly to wear," Anthea announces, and she and Irene walk out of the drawing room, almost as if this is some ordinary party. Molly stands there dizzily, trying to work out what's happening. What she thinks she's doing.

She turns to find the Mollys in the mirror all gazing back at her, rows of flat-chested, thin-lipped women. They know what's going on; they can see her hair going everywhere, and her eyes wide and the flush on her skin. They can spot the signs of a woman who's turned on by the thought of a lover, who is longing for his – her – touch on her skin even now. They know about the shiver in Molly's stomach, the subtle flexing of tense limbs, trying unsuccessfully to dissipate the warmth that's building in her groin.

It's not like that, she says, shaking her head at her mirror images. It was just the heat of the moment, literally. Anthea hugging her felt...nice, but it's not...it doesn't mean anything.  But the other Mollys look sternly back at her, telling her not to lie. They know that whatever she may say, what she really wants to do right now is put the heel of her hand down against the crotch of her briefs, press her fingers through the fabric to touch the eager flesh below and imagine...imagine...

The drawing room door opens again and Irene walks in, champagne flutes in one hand, bottle in the other.

"You look as if you need a hand, Molly," she says coolly, and Molly blushes, as her fingers go hastily up to fiddle with her hair. Not any other part of her, not at all.

"I'm fine," she gabbles and Irene put down the bottle and glasses on the coffee table and smiles at Molly. The smile of a woman who's already three moves ahead in the game and who loves to play it.

"You like champagne?" she says, and when Molly nods, Irene adds: "But how would you have known if you'd never dared try it for the first time?"

There's no answer to that. Molly feels her breath speed up, because there is literally nothing that Irene might not decide to do to her. With her.

"Don't worry," Irene says. "I wouldn't start without Anthea. She's very protective of you." She smiles again. "You know this evening would have been so different if I'd just been a little stricter, Molly. So where is the tracking device? Should I have given you a more intimate search?"

Molly's brain almost short-circuits over the way Irene says _intimate_ and it takes her a moment to work out the rest of the sentence. "You thought I might have a tracking device in my clothes? That was why you had me take them off?"

"No," Irene's smile is even sweeter now. "That's why your belongings went for a tour round London in Jane's car. I had you take your clothes off because I wanted to see exactly what was under that ridiculous dress of yours."

Molly wonders for a moment if it's actually possible to burst into flames from blushing, and then a cool voice says:

"There wasn't a tracking device."

Anthea to her rescue, of course, appearing in the doorway with an armful of clothes.

"Then how...?" Irene asks, and she's suddenly alert, wary.

"They don't switch the congestion charge cameras off at six p.m., you know, just the charging mechanism. It's perfectly possible to spot the cars that go into central London and out again at any particular time. If only you were content with public transport, Irene, you'd be so much harder to find."  
Anthea smiles serenely at Irene and puts the clothes carefully down on the sofa. "I think these'll fit you, Molly."

A grey top of some satiny material, cropped black trousers, black ballet pumps. As Molly puts them on, she's acutely conscious of Anthea keeping her eyes firmly above Molly's neck. The clothes fit and they probably make Irene look like Audrey Hepburn; Molly's sure they make _her_ look like some pathetic waif.

There's a sharp _pop_ behind her and for a split-second she panics about guns, before she realises it's Irene opening the champagne. She pours it out expertly, hands a glass each to Molly and Anthea, and then raises hers.

"Here's to us. Who's like us?"

_Damn few and they're all dead_. Molly's mind finishes the quote, as they chink glasses. She takes a sip and she can feel the bubbles fizz gloriously on her tongue; she has to drink slowly, not get light-headed.

Irene, however, tilts back her head and pours the champagne into her mouth in one quick movement. Her tongue flicks round her scarlet lips, and she throws the glass to crash into the fireplace. While Molly's still staring in distraction – _who's going to clear that mess up?_ – Irene steps forward rapidly, and her hand is reaching for Anthea's face...

For a moment – caught in horror – Molly thinks Irene is attacking Anthea. Then she realises that Irene's mouth is against Anthea's neck, and unless Irene's really a vampire, Anthea's probably quite safe.

More than safe, in fact. Even though Irene is now relentlessly mouthing at a spot just above her clavicle, Anthea simply hooks one long arm round Irene's waist, and holds out the other arm, her champagne flute perfectly steady.

"Could you take this please, Molly? I don't think we want any more glasses broken," she says, and as Molly takes it, their fingers touch for a moment. And then Molly's standing there, a glass in each hand, watching Anthea and Irene fondling one another.

She can hardly not watch. Because, of course, Irene has somehow managed to position herself so that she and Anthea are reflected in the mirrors. A row of Irenes reaching up to plant kisses on the ivory skin of infinite Antheas. And even if Molly did close her eyes, she would still hear the sighs that are starting to come from the Antheas now, as the Irenes' hands shift over the taller women's bodies, drawing them in, teasing them, enflaming...

Molly doesn't close her eyes. She drains her glass and watches the show that Irene is putting on for her. Then she brings Anthea's glass to her lips and drinks that down too for luck. She puts the glasses back down on the table with trembling fingers, and Irene's satin top slides smoothly over her sensitive nipples. When she turns back again, she sees two pairs of grey eyes examining her.

"Anthea's still got her phone," Irene says, and she looks as calm as when Molly first saw her walking downstairs an hour – a lifetime – ago. "She can phone for a car, if you like, and take you back to your own little home and your own empty bed.  Or you can stay here with Anthea. She's turned on by you, you know. Right now she's wishing she could pull her trousers down, finger herself through her crimson knickers and imagine her hands are yours. Do you like that idea, Molly? That you've got someone at your mercy? That when Anthea kisses me, she's thinking about you, that she'll come tonight calling your name? Do you want to go home now or do you want to stay and see that?"

"My name?" Molly almost squeaks, because surely it's not...surely it's Irene that Anthea wants, not her?

"Oh yeah," Anthea says, and beneath the normal cheeriness there's something desperate that takes Molly's breath away. Irene has a hard, clear look on her face now; maybe she's got X-ray vision, because Molly suddenly feels naked again.

"But that's not enough for you, is it Molly?" Irene breathes, moving slowly towards her. "You want to do bad things tonight, don't you, dirty things? All the things that nice girls like you don't do. Nice girls don't sleep with other women, do they? And they certainly don't have threesomes. It's only bad girls who do that, bad girls who scream and say "more" and don't care what happens as long as they get what they want. Do you want that, Molly? Do you want to know just how bad you can be, how good it feels being bad?"

Molly nods and Irene reaches out her hand towards Molly's breast, and Molly knows that when Irene touches her she will be turned to stone. But she can't do anything, because The Woman has hypnotised her. Then Anthea's hand reaches out and fastens round Irene's wrist.

"I think in the bedroom would be better," Anthea says casually, "and we should play nicely; we don't want to upset Molly." Irene turns to stare at her, and there's a subtle change in Anthea's posture. She stands up just a trifle straighter and her fingers flex and Molly suddenly wonders if Anthea's well-toned body comes solely from regular trips to the gym, or if she also does several hours of martial arts daily.

Irene's obviously had the same thought. Her free hand goes up, and Anthea wonders if she's going to put it back behind her head again, if she thinks Anthea might be planning to shoot her.  But instead, Irene ducks her head down, as her hand pulls at hairpins. She's literally letting her hair down, and when she looks up again, it's as if she's become a different person. The cheekbones may be the same, but with her messy brown curls, and an easy, uncalculated smile. Irene Adler is for the moment just one of the girls. Anthea smiles an approving smile and lets go of her wrist.

"Bedroom it is," Irene says. "Follow me." She walks out of the room without a backwards glance, and Anthea smiles a reassuring smile at Molly and takes her hand.

"Don't worry," she says. "It'll be fine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly wants to do bad things with Irene and Anthea. Or possibly she wants to.

Molly's expecting Irene's bedroom to be crammed full of whips and chains, but instead it's another interior-designed showroom, with extravagant white and silver-patterned wallpaper.  The huge bed with its elegant cushions looks decadently inviting, a world away from Molly's cozy bed, with its bright duvet covered with cat hairs. Irene's heels click across the pale wooden floor, as she sweeps a negligee onto a nearby chair.

"We want to make it good for you," Anthea says, as her hand squeezes Molly's reassuringly. "So what do you like?"

Molly gives a tiny, worried gasp, because she should know, shouldn't she? She ought to be a woman who can just say: _I want this, I don't want that_. Good sex is all about communication, she's read that so many times. But how can she say: _I want it to be sexy and nice, but I'm not sure how?_ She stands there and she abruptly feels like crying, because even though she's supposed to be taking part in a threesome, she's still _her_. She's too uptight and her body's all wrong, and maybe she should just claim she's changed her mind, ask to go home...

"Molly enjoys the feel of that top on her breasts," Irene says, as casually as if they're discussing the weather. "She likes the fact that you're taller and stronger than her, Anthea; she wants to be protected. Her neck's very sensitive, but she still wears her hair down off-duty. Probably in case someone pulls at her ponytail; she doesn't get turned on by pain. She'd like the lights low because she's self-conscious about her body. She falls for insensitive men and she's not good at saying what she wants, so she's almost certainly never had really satisfying oral sex."

She's absolutely correct about everything. Molly's chin goes up and she says in a slightly wobbly voice:  "I don't like being laughed at either."

"I'm not laughing," Irene says, and her voice is perfectly sincere. "I'm observing. It's my job to. Do you like kissing?"

"Sometimes."

"Gentle or hard?"

"Gentle."

"Where on your body?" Irene's carefully adjusting the lights now, dimming them a fraction till there's nothing but a soft glow. A soft glow that somehow manages to make Irene's skin look even more radiant.

"My stomach," Molly says. "My neck." She nerves herself and adds: "On my feet."

"Would you like your feet massaged?" Irene asks and Molly nods and wonders slightly shakily if she should have asked at the beginning if Irene did a pamper party option.

"Nutmeg, rose, lavender? I might have some almond oil somewhere."

"Lavender," Molly says, and Irene smiles at her, as if she's just ticked off another box in her mind. But all this new, friendly Irene says is: "Would you like to see Anthea naked?"

"Yes," Molly says, because she abruptly realises she would, very much. Anthea takes off her plimsolls and black socks; her long, perfectly-shaped feet have a sheen of light pink on the toes.  She tugs off her jump suit, and yes, Irene was right; above the long, long legs, Anthea's knickers are crimson. Her bra is a matching crimson; Anthea stands for a moment, scanning Molly, and then turns her back on her.

"Can you undo this?" she asks, in a cheerful, big-sisterly voice. "The hooks are a bit fiddly."

All the alcohol scrubs at work means Molly's hands are nothing like as soft as Irene's; they're also shaking. But after she's undone the strap, she pulls the bra off Anthea's shoulders and cups fingers round each breast. She rubs Anthea's nipples very gently, feeling them respond, as Molly presses herself against the other woman's bare back. And Anthea – gorgeous, deadly Anthea, who could doubtless disarm a six-foot man in a single easy move – just stands there and _breathes_ deeply, her breasts rising and falling against Molly's eager hands.

But Molly wants more now, because that's what bad girls do, isn't it? Her hands track down Anthea's slender flanks, and then curve back behind her hips. She fondles Anthea's buttocks through the soft crimson fabric of her knickers and there's the hint of a sigh from Anthea. Then Molly slowly, awkwardly, pulls down the knickers and Anthea carefully steps out of them. She turns to face Molly, and their arms go round each other. Anthea holds Molly, and those strong arms are once again running up and down the ridge of Molly's spine, sending shivers through her. And she...she is blatantly groping and kissing Anthea's naked body, hands and mouth clumsily seeking out whatever they can find. She wants this, she wants to dissolve herself into Anthea, to lose herself in heat and friction: damp skin rubbing against cool, smooth satin, nerves firing, lightning flashes before her eyes...

"Irene!" Anthea exclaims and her hands come away from Molly, as Molly belatedly realises that it wasn't lightning, but a camera flash. She turns round, panting, and there's Irene, holding out a smartphone. She's pretty sure that the image displayed on the screen would be classed as not safe for work: Anthea's head going back, a dreamy expression on her face, as Molly's tongue attacks one of her nipples.

"I'm out at work," Anthea says, hands on her hips, and she does a very good job of sounding unconcerned, even if her smile looks a little fake. "And Molly can't be recognised from that angle. It's no use to you, Irene."

"Can I have a closer look?" Molly asks, and Irene hands over the phone. And Anthea's right. All that's in focus is the back of Molly's head and the straps of her top; she could be any woman. Any woman who's trying to give another one pleasure.

"I look a bit overdressed," Molly says defiantly, and hands the phone back to Irene. Then she kicks off Irene's pumps and pulls down her trousers and briefs. As she stretches back up, Anthea's fingers drift across her satin top, leaving a trail of sensation round Molly's breasts, and then head down to her waist.

"This as well?" Anthea asks huskily.

"Yes," Molly says, raising her arms, and Anthea strips off the top and then starts nuzzling her ear. Her arms cross round Molly's torso, holding her tight, safe, as Molly glares at Irene.

"I'm ready for my close-up now, Mr DeMille," she says, and Irene's smile in response is almost a grin.

"Say cheese," she says, and the phone comes up and flashes. Irene looks down and slides her fingers across the screen a few times. She grins again and places the phone back in Molly's hand. Molly looks at the image, holding it so that Anthea can see the screen as well. And yes, this is revealing as well, if in a completely different way. Irene's cropped the photo to focus on their faces; you can't see enough to be sure whether the pair are naked or just in low-cut tops. What you can be sure of is that they're not random colleagues, or even just good friends. The air of protective lust on Anthea's face is practically screaming: _This is my girlfriend_. And when Molly looks into her own eyes, what she sees is a woman who's finally worked out what she wants, even if she's not quite yet sure how to get it.

"Send that one to Athena at gmail dot com," Anthea says. "Either delete the other one or personal use only. Are you through?"

"I promised Molly a foot-massage," Irene says.

"You promised me a threesome," Molly replies, and then winces, because perhaps that isn't what Anthea wants any more? But Anthea's arms give her a gentle, encouraging squeeze, and she knows that somehow it's the right thing to say. That even now, there's some more complex game going on and part of her role is to distract Irene. Irene's looking at her now, with an appreciative, calculating lust. _What's she deducing about me this time?_

"Anthea, you sit on the bed; Molly, you sit between her legs and then lean back against her," Irene announces. "The thing about being with two women, Molly, is that you can get touched _everywhere_." She puts down the phone and picks up a small glass bottle from the bedside cabinet. "You said lavender oil, didn't you?"

Anthea pulls the duvet off, to reveal carefully laundered sheets. She sits down, shifting the pillows and cushions to support her back, and then spreads her long legs wide, enviably flexible. Molly shuffles into place on her bottom in front of her, not quite sure if she's positioning herself right. She feels nervous again, which is ridiculous, but her mind is suddenly shrieking that she is naked in BED with another WOMAN and she's not supposed to be...

"It's OK, Molly," Anthea says, her arms coming round to rub soothingly up and down Molly's thighs. Which is nice, but not quite what she wants...

"A lighter touch than that," Irene says, and Molly wonders for a moment if she can read her mind, before remembering that Irene's very observant about body language. Anthea's hands slow, barely brushing Molly now, and as the sensations ripple out, that's much better.

"Molly's stomach is very sensitive," Irene says. "Try just above the bikini line." Anthea places her hands on Molly's hipbones and her long fingers sweep in arcs across the bare skin. _I'm in bed with another woman and I like it_ , Molly tells her inner Puritan firmly, and though her breathing is still shaky, it's not just from fear. Anthea's lips start dotting kisses onto her shoulders; Irene unstoppers the bottle of massage oil. Molly wonders if there's a faint flush on Irene's cheeks now, if Irene's getting as hot and bothered as she is. Hard to be sure in the dim, soothing light. She's tempted just to close her eyes, lie back...

"Aren't you worried about getting oil on your clothes, Irene?" Anthea asks cheerfully. "Maybe you should undress as well."

Molly's eyes jerk back open at the not-quite-an-order tone of Anthea's voice. Irene's gaze catches hers and there's a gleam in those big grey eyes. Irene's got an audience and she wants to make the most of it.

It's not quite a strip-tease, but it's still calculated. After Irene's slid out of her black dress, she goes to hang it up, carefully displaying the sleek curve of her behind emerging from her low-cut black knickers. Above the red-soled stilettos, she's wearing suspender belt and stockings, of course; she removes them slowly, in a way that highlights every angle of her slender legs. There's something about the way that Irene stands on the balls of her feet as she does so that strikes a chord in Molly's mind.

"You studied ballet, didn't you?" Molly says, remembering a school friend of hers who moved in the same way.

Irene smiles wickedly and purrs: "They threw me out of ballet school for seducing a teacher."

Anthea's mouth lifts for a moment from Molly's spine, as she casually replies:

"They threw _me_ out of ballet school when they found out I wasn't Russian after all."

Irene raises a sceptical eyebrow and Anthea rattles out a sentence of what might be Russian. Irene's smile moves an inch towards impressed.

"I told her we weren't interested in fifth position tonight," Anthea whispers in Molly's ear, before returning to kissing her. And oh, it's _good_ , and excitement is tugging at Molly's insides. Irene kneels on the bed, down by Molly's ankles, her hands shiny with oil.

"You wanted your feet massaged. So lie back."

"And think of England?" Molly says shakily, as she lets her head be pillowed on Anthea's breasts.

"Don't think at all," Irene says softly. "Just feel. Feel what your body wants and let it have it."

Molly's eyes close, almost of their own will. It's not her body any more, she thinks, as Anthea's kisses press at her hairline and Irene's clever hands slide round her ankle bones. It's theirs. They can do what they want to her now. She will sink into sensations until there is nothing left of Molly Hooper.

They're so good to her, strong and tender. Irene clearly regards "foot massage" as a euphemism for hands and mouth _everywhere_ , and soon nimble fingers and a delicate tongue are leaving her feet, and tracing upwards onto Molly's quivering thighs. But it's OK, she's safe, because Anthea is there, holding her, warm arms wrapped around her. Stroking her, reassuring her, rousing her. Anthea's mouth reaches round to lap at her areola, and suddenly there's a skilled mouth on her other breast as well, and the doubled sensation overwhelms her. She's nothing but hot skin and lust and she moans, and reaches down for her aching, desperate pussy.

Irene's too quick for her; the next thing Molly knows, her own hands are clutching onto Irene's slim shoulders, as Irene's tongue teases into her groin. Exploring her secret parts – mons, perineum, labia, clitoris – searching for the weak spots in her defences. Molly's nervous system has been hot-wired and she's gasping, begging for more. Her body jerks without her control – Anthea and Irene, tongues and fingers – it doesn't stop and it can't stop. She is falling apart, screaming as she collapses into atoms, and it's too much bliss...

"Stop," she begs and the hands and mouths pull away at her command. She falls endlessly into empty space, as Anthea slides out carefully from behind her, letting her gently down onto the bed. She lies there, eyes closed and limbs heavy, trying to remember how to think. How to breathe.  It gradually registers that Anthea and Irene are talking, a low slurred conversation, which makes her wonder for a moment if they've switched to a foreign language again. One that has a lot more pauses and catches of breath than English. She raises her head and opens her eyes, because she shouldn't just lie around like a corpse in the morgue. Irene has slithered up the bed and she and Anthea are kneeling opposite one another. Talking in English, in between enthusiastic kissing.

"Ready?" Irene murmurs and then her eyes flick towards Molly, and she whispers something to Anthea about a "strap". Molly gives an involuntary gasp, as tension suddenly invades her languorous body. Irene's a dominatrix, after all; she won't stay kind, she'll want to inflict pain.

"Shush," Irene whispers, as a finger reaches out to brush Molly's bottom lip. "Don't worry. I won't hurt you. Anthea wouldn't let me. There's more for you, but you have to wait. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Molly whispers back, as Anthea reaches out to stroke her hair for a moment. Then the other two women get up, pale figures in the dim light, stepping almost noiselessly across the bare floor and disappearing through the door, to leave her alone.

***

Molly lies on the bed, her thoughts drifting dizzily. None of the evening makes sense, does it? She came here to help Anthea with a case, and it turns out Anthea's not only gay, but attracted to her. They were supposed to be catching Irene and they've ended up trying to seduce her. And now Molly's just had one of the most mind-blowing orgasms of her life, given to her by the two women.

Best not to worry about it, just enjoy the aftermath, lie here and dream. She wonders after a while what Anthea and Irene are doing. Whether they're...whether they're making love to one another. Whether Anthea will come calling Molly's name, like Irene said. She thinks, slightly shakily, that somewhere on the internet there must be a site on the etiquette of lesbian threesomes. But without that, she's not quite sure what to do.

A small part of her keeps on thinking that she should leave. She's been safe so far, but things could still turn nasty. She could slip downstairs and out of the front door while Anthea's keeping Irene busy.

Not a good idea, on second thought. She may have clothes now, but she still doesn't have any money or a phone and she could be anywhere in London. There are risks out on the street as well. So maybe she should just go and find Irene and Anthea and ask...ask what? Ask to be taken home, ask to be one of the gang? But Irene said to wait, and it's probably not a good idea wandering round on her own. She overheard John Watson once saying that Irene's house in Belgravia had been booby-trapped.

She does need the loo, though, and there's another door in the bedroom; she opens it very, very carefully and finds that there's a bathroom. With a grey marble floor and chandeliers, and a tub you could probably drown in. As she freshens herself up, she looks in the mirror and sees that not-quite-straight Molly still looks the same as straight Molly, except with a smudge of Anthea's lipstick above her ear. Everything's changed and nothing has.

No: _she_ has changed. Irene said wait and she's going to wait, not try and run away. Because whatever Irene has thought up for her now, she's not scared of it, she tells herself, striking a determined pose before the mirror. Well, that's a lie, of course, but if Anthea's at her side, she can cope with Irene. She and Anthea are a match for her. She goes back into the dimly-lit bedroom, lies down on the bed, naked and unashamed. She's ready for anything.  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's ready for anything, she thinks. Except, of course, Irene's next seductive idea.

The bed's so comfortable that Molly's almost drifting off when it happens. The door swings suddenly open and reveals a slim figure in a dark coat and a scarf dramatically silhouetted against the light outside.

"Here she is," the figure announces, as it sweeps towards her on the bed, pulling off the scarf. That goes over Molly's eyes, knotted skilfully behind her head as she instinctively raises it. She's blindfolded, but not before she's caught a glimpse of pale eyes, sharp cheekbones and a mouth to die for.  Which means that it's Irene playing at being Sherlock, her brain belatedly works out. So the other person Molly can sense beside her now, whose woolly-jumpered arm she feels as she reaches out, must be Anthea. Well, unless things are getting _really_ complicated.

"As I suspected, Miss Hooper is indeed in Irene Adler's bedroom," Irene announces, and though the voice isn't quite low-enough pitched to be an accurate impersonation, she gets the imperious tone almost right. "The question, John, is why she is here?"

"Sherlock!" Anthea doesn't sound much like John, but the clear subtext of _Behave yourself_ is very Watson-like.

"Molly is in Irene's bed, naked, but unrestrained. The door is unlocked, but she still remains here; there's no trace of any attempt to open the window, to call for help. Conclusion? She is here voluntarily." A finger comes down to trace round Molly's left nipple, the leather glove soft against her quivering skin. "There are clear signs of sexual arousal: pulse rate, flushing around the chest and neck. There are also, however, traces of earlier sexual activity, which she has clumsily attempted to hide, perhaps out of embarrassment."

"Sherlock! You can't..." 'John's' hand squeezes Molly's shoulder and then rests on it, warm, firm. "Molly, it's OK. If you want to be taken home right now, just say so."

"Oh, John, you're so blind," 'Sherlock' replies. "Molly has come to Miss Adler's house and engaged in sexual activity in this very bed. Surely it's obvious with whom? Miss Hooper has discovered the dubious delights of Sapphic sex and fixed on Irene as her partner. What we need to consider now is the reasons for this action."

_Yes, of course that's what Sherlock would be interested in_ , Molly thinks and then remembers that this isn't Sherlock. That the hands now moving confidently around her body, the grey eyes that are doubtless inspecting her minutely, belong not to Sherlock, but Irene pretending to be Sherlock.

She's not sure why she finds that so hot, but her brain's frankly got beyond _why_ , to concentrate on more important matters, like _What next_ and _How soon?_ Though of course, you can't expect a manipulative genius to play to her timetable. The hands are removed now, and Molly's almost whimpering from frustration. Maybe she could reach down...But she can't – Molly wouldn't touch herself while Sherlock and John were watching, would she?

Irene has resumed Sherlock's monologue:

"Irene's motivation is obvious: she hopes to recruit Molly as an ally. But why is Miss Hooper doing this? She's been in love with me for years and yet she sleeps with Irene. An obvious attempt to attract my attention, possibly even to make me jealous. And also to try and convince herself that Irene can satisfy her _desires_." There's a telling pause and then: "A ridiculous assumption, of course. Molly is heterosexual. There is no satisfaction that Irene can provide that I cannot supply more effectively. And there are obviously things I can do that Irene cannot; even Miss Hooper's feeble grasp of anatomy should have taught her that."

The voice is deepening to a growl, far rougher than Sherlock's normal sexy purr, the one he puts on to manipulate Molly. But maybe if he was truly turned on, about to...about to...Her body tingles at the thought. Lips brush her ear, and a hoarse whisper says:

"You're hoping we're going to have intercourse, aren't you, Miss Hooper? You won't be thinking about Irene any more after that, I can assure you."

Her heart is pounding loudly, but she can still hear the rustle of clothing, and then Irene-as-Sherlock's gloriously confident voice rings out:

"I suggest you remove your trousers as well, John. You'd really be much more comfortable, and I'm sure Molly will excuse you under the circumstances."

The strong, reassuring hand that's still on Molly's shoulder removes itself abruptly.

"I...I..." says John – Anthea – and the note of panic sounds almost authentic. And then Irene/Sherlock announces:

"You're so ridiculously commonplace, both of you. Even your fantasies are dull. Molly dreams about me 'making love' to her. But her mind is far too conventional to realise that what she _actually_ wants is me fucking her into the mattress, while John watches us both."

That's the point at which Molly's brain officially blows a fuse. There's a faint gurgling noise behind her that suggests John's mind is also overloading. Possibly even Anthea's. Sherlock and her...and John. She's never imagined that, of course, because it would be so absolutely, completely _wrong_. And now she can't stop thinking about it, the wicked, impossible images flooding into her mind.

"John, I suggest you move to the other side of the bed, so you can gawp without getting in the way," 'Sherlock' says, as calmly as if he's discussing an interesting corpse. "And Molly, since your mouth has now fallen open and conversation's not really your strong point, I think you should put it to better use."

The bed dips as 'Sherlock' straddles her, and a few moments later something is pressing against her parted lips. Not a finger or a tongue, but thicker, firmer...

For a fraction of a second, Molly's confused brain thinks it's real. That Irene – Sherlock – really has put a penis in her mouth. Then, as her tongue automatically starts to explore the intrusion, it registers that however realistic the shape is, this is nothing but plastic. The feel, the taste, is not quite right.

Except she's in a world where _right_ and _wrong_ no longer apply. She can choose to do this, to continue this strange fiction, and imagine it's real. She licks at the head of the thing – a dildo, her mind adds – and then, a little more daringly, takes some of the shaft into her mouth, sucking gently. She stretches her hands out, trying to work out exactly where Irene is. Her fingers run up smooth, firm, naked thighs and then reach some kind of harness. The straps that Irene mentioned earlier? There's something else softer brushing the backs of her hands and Molly realises that Irene still has her coat on. And when she raises her hands up even higher she finds the strokeable fabric of a fine cotton shirt. She hopes Sherlock's wearing his purple shirt; she's particularly fond of that one.

It's not Sherlock's shirt, of course. It's not Sherlock at all. But even though Molly knows that, she doesn't have to believe it any more. If she wants it to be Sherlock, she can make it be him. She can have whatever she wants tonight. So if this was Sherlock above her, the Sherlock of her fantasies, what would she do now?

_Give him a blow job he won't forget in a hurry_ , she decides and pushes her mouth a little further down.

"Your mouth's rather small and my erect penis is above average size," 'Sherlock' remarks. "I don't suggest you try deep-throating, Molly, you'll only choke yourself."

_He's such an insensitive prick sometimes_ , Molly thinks, and then a silent giggle bubbles up inside her at the accidental pun. Well, she doesn't have to be too careful, she decides, and it doesn't matter if her mouth's small. Her hands wrap round the base of the penis and she starts to rub it. Not quite as gently as she would under normal circumstances,

Her ears, hypersensitive by now, catch a moment's stutter in the breathing above her. However this thing works, 'Sherlock' liked that, and Molly licks and rubs enthusiastically, a twist to her hands now, as they squeeze around the dildo. Her jaw is starting to ache, and she must look totally ridiculous, but she's not stopping yet. Not when Irene's hips are starting to flex, and the plastic penis is now twitching in Molly's grasp.

"Yes," Irene mutters, and just for a moment, it is Irene's voice, not Sherlock's. Then there's a sudden sharp brightness that even Molly's blindfolded eyes can sense; a second and a third, and the body above her stills. John – Anthea – is taking photos.

But in the scale of bad things Molly's already done tonight, appearing in a few more dodgy photos seems nothing. And 'Sherlock' recovers his poise almost immediately, drawling:

"Don't put those on your blog, John, even if you do need to improve the hit count. It's the size of my _intellect_ you and your pathetic readers should be admiring." The knees straddling Molly shift slightly and then 'Sherlock' adds, "I think we're ready for stage two, now that Miss Hooper has amply demonstrated her oral fixation."

Molly lets the dildo slide away, wondering what she was thinking. It's all a game to him, of course, all some bizarre way of proving his superiority. To John, to her, to the world. Just for a moment she wonders why she puts up with Sherlock.

Well, one obvious reason is because the hands – still in their leather gloves – are running down her body, and she knows exactly where they're aiming for.  A finger dipping into her entrance...two.

"Vaginal lubrication seems adequate," a smug voice announces, and then deepens luxuriously. "Or to put it another way, Miss Hooper is hot, wet and ready to be taken."

Molly spreads her knees shamelessly, and wishes suddenly that the man would just stop talking and get a move on. But Sherlock shutting up is obviously a fantasy beyond either her or Irene. He's still talking – lecturing – as his fingers start to move inside her vagina, exploring it.

"The existence of the Gräfenberg spot is not in question, at least not for the majority of the human race. The issue is whether an individual woman finds it to be an erogenous zone or not, something best discovered empirically. Of course, the false modesty of some females makes them remarkably reluctant to reveal their own preferred sexual stimuli, but to the skilled observer–"

"Higher," Molly mutters, as the fingers press in a spot that is just that bit wrong. "There." The last word comes out more as a squeak, especially since Sherlock's thumb – someone's thumb – is now ghosting over her clit as well. Worrying any more about what Sherlock is saying now seems a complete waste of the brain space that should instead be devoted to the twin sensations of pleasure flooding into her. Her body flexes into the touch, wanting more, more, more.

After a while – too soon, of course, how could it not be too soon? – the fingers are withdrawn, and her body rocks disconsolately.

"More," she says, and she knows there's a sardonic grin on the face above her, even though she can't see it. And then her gut tightens in apprehension as she feels the dildo penetrate her. She remembers abruptly that sex in the missionary position hadn't actually been that enjoyable with the last really well-endowed boyfriend she had.

But Irene's a lot smaller and lighter than Colin – who had been big _everywhere_ – so Molly doesn't feel she's being crushed by the weight of the body on top. And Irene's pushing in, very, very carefully, filling her slowly, not pounding into her. Molly also abruptly realises that she doesn't need to worry that this is all going to be over too soon. And since Irene is entirely capable of making sure she gets exactly what she wants from any sexual encounter, all that Molly has to worry about is herself.

The main thing is to get the angles right, and that's a matter of trial and error, along with knowledge of anatomy, which – thank you very much, Sherlock Holmes – she knows a lot about. Slide an inch or two further down the bed, push up till she can feel the grind of her pubic bones against Irene, and then start her muscles into the old, but still exciting rhythm, as Irene's hips begin a carefully controlled counter-rhythm.

Pressure and friction and then the liquid heat that obliterates thought itself, that reduces her to nothing but want, She can't remember what she moans at her climax this time, but only the quiet afterwards, when she lies there, her body emptied out. She probably ought to say something, do something, but warm, fuzzy oblivion is simply easier. She's not even up to the hard work of keeping her eyelids open any more.

***

It's not surprising, perhaps, that Molly falls asleep, even though she doesn't intend to. Too much excitement and too many late nights catching up on her. When she wakes, it's to an empty room and a familiar jaunty Beyoncé ringtone that sounds just like hers. It is hers. There on the other pillow is her phone, along with her neatly folded clothes. She knew a threesome involving Irene Adler was hardly likely to end with a group hug, but it's still not quite what she hoped for.

She checks her phone, and by this point if she found an invitation to an orgy at Buckingham Palace, it would seem almost plausible. But instead there are two messages: one from Irene and one from Anthea. She opens the one from Irene first, because she'd rather know the worst immediately. But all it says is:

_When you're ready, Anthea will take you home. It was lovely seeing you, Molly._

_IA_

_PS: I thought you might like a little souvenir._

The photo attached isn't the one she expected. It's the _nice_ one that Irene took, showing her and Anthea smiling at the camera. For a fraction of a second she wishes it was the other one, but that would be too risky. Whereas this...

This makes Molly look almost beautiful, even if she's nothing compared to Anthea's elegance. This is the kind of picture you could put on your wall or carry in your wallet to show people. If you're willing to accept – to let other people know – that you're in love with an absolutely gorgeous woman.

She wishes it was as easy as that. She doesn't know...she's not sure what she wants, let alone what Anthea wants. What happens when they leave the bubble of Irene's house, where anything can come true. She opens Anthea's message then, but it doesn't provide an answer. All it says is:

_For your eyes only. I've deleted the other two pictures._

_A_

The photo attached to this message definitely isn't one to put on your walls. Well, not unless you've expecting only very liberal-minded visitors. It manages to be staggeringly indecent while involving almost no nudity. Irene's body, as she kneels astride Molly, is covered from the neck down by her coat. Molly's bare arm and shoulder are plainly visible, but it's only inference that would allow a viewer to work out what her hand and mouth are wrapped around. Well, inference combined with the look of abandon on Irene's face.

Even very slightly blurred, Irene is still recognisable. Molly, with the scarf around her eyes, isn't, she suspects. How could anyone work out who she is from her arm alone? Sherlock certainly won't be able to; he couldn't even recognise Irene's naked body. Anthea surely wouldn't have taken the photos if she thought it was going to get _Molly_ into trouble.

There's something more to the picture, Molly's convinced of it. She takes the phone into the bathroom with her, stares at the photo again as she starts to run herself a bath. She's not going to creep away; she'll go when she's ready to go and not before.

Anthea took three photos; what does this one show that the others didn't? Molly has to admit the composition is striking; the way the red buttonhole on The Coat stands out in sharp focus in the middle of the frame, drawing the eye in...

_Oh._ It's not just that it looks a lot like Sherlock's coat; it's almost identical, suggesting a level of detail on Irene's part that's more than a little obsessive. Just as her ability to mimic not just Sherlock's voice, but his speech patterns, must have taken hours, if not days of study and practice. The photo's not a threat by Anthea to expose Irene as a kinky lesbian; it's the threat to expose her as a kinky lesbian obsessed with Sherlock Holmes that's intended as leverage.

So where does that leave _her_ , Molly wonders, as she eases her tired, sticky body into luxuriously excessive amounts of hot, scented bubbles. A pawn in the game, doubtless, caught between two clever, devious women.

No, she's not. She hasn't simply been a pawn ever since Anthea offered to take her home and Irene suggested she stayed. And there's one more thing left. She's done bad things and Irene's obviously enjoyed herself. But Molly hasn't yet heard Anthea come, calling her name. Time to remedy that. She eases out of the water and dries herself on one of the many fluffy white towels. Then she picks up her phone, and texts Anthea.

_A. I'm ready for you now. Molly_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirror-universe-Molly is turning out to be better at being bad than she expected.

Anthea comes into the bathroom fully clothed and with a rapid, door-barging move that shows she's back to secret agent mode. There's a quick automatic smile at Molly that turns into a slightly longer glance up and down the other woman's naked body. But then Anthea's eyes are moving away, scanning around the room, and she pulls out her Blackberry and starts to type with nimble thumbs.

_I've got it all wrong,_ Molly thinks, feeling heat in her cheeks that isn't just from the bath. Then Anthea walks over to her, another cheery smile on her face and holds up the screen of her phone.

_She's so obvious sometimes. Camera is installed in chandelier over the right-hand basin._

This is Irene Adler's house. Of course there are hidden cameras in the bathrooms. And there must be microphones as well, if Anthea's doing that. Molly steps back towards the bath and turns on the taps full. This almost certainly won't work the way it does in the movies, but never mind. She walks right up to the other woman and stands on tiptoe, as she whispers into Anthea's ear:

"I want you."

Her breasts, still rosy from the bath, press against the soft black fabric of Anthea's jumpsuit. Anthea puts one arm round her, pulls in her closer. With the other hand, she's still typing.

_I could take you to a safe house_.

"I'm not interested in safety," Molly replies. Out loud.

_So you want to drive two women wild at the same time?_

Put it like that, and there's only one answer, isn't there? She's not sure she can give Irene much of a show, but she's quite willing to try.

"Yes," she says, and blows a kiss in what she hopes is the direction of the camera. "But I should probably turn off the taps first. And...could you put your phone away?"

By the time Molly turns back round from the bath, picking up a towel, Anthea's already stripping, with the unconscious confidence of someone who doesn't need any special technique to attract others. She just _is_ sexy; not like Irene, who's trained herself to be desirable.

Molly folds up the towel carefully, putting it on the marble tiling. As she kneels down on it, she wishes that Irene wasn't quite so obsessed with uncarpeted floors. It would be more comfortable back on the bed, of course, but that feels too much like Irene's territory. Irene may get to watch them here, but she's not in charge any more.

Anthea walks across to stand in front of Molly. She has neatly trimmed pubic hair and Molly's hands, reaching out, can feel the muscle hidden within those slender thighs. All woman, all desirable. She wishes she was more experienced, but there's no use pretending.

"I've never done this before," she says. "With a woman. You'll have to tell me what to do."

Anthea smiles down at her, and the easy warmth is back in her voice, the tone that makes Molly feel she can do anything.

"You'll be fine," Anthea says, and her hand runs gently down Molly's cheek. "Just take it slowly to start with."

***

As Irene spotted, Molly's own experience of oral sex has been mostly disappointing. Apart from with Irene, of course, but she wasn't taking detailed notes then. But she's good at following instructions – a lab technician has to be – and nothing about bodies squicks her out. Her hands and tongue – soft and precise – open up Anthea at Anthea's own command, explore her, tease and push and nibble. Till Anthea's cool facade crumbles and she's wet and shuddering and messy and human. Her hands tighten painfully on Molly's shoulders as she comes, and Molly's knees and back are aching, but it's her name that Anthea calls, so none of the rest of it matters. She gets up stiffly and hugs Anthea, kisses her, face dripping with Anthea's own juices and then whispers into her ear again:

"Mission accomplished."

She doesn't need a photograph of Anthea's gorgeous smile at that point; she can't imagine ever forgetting that look.

***  
Molly's still putting her tights back on when Anthea, already dressed, pulls out her small gun and starts checking it.

"I'm not quite sure how long Irene's truce will last," she says casually. "So I think we had better go now."

"Do you...are going to need that?" Molly asks, trying not to sound petrified.

"Very unlikely," Anthea replies. "I _think_ that Irene will probably be replaying our last encounter right now. But I don't want any nasty surprises, especially not when you're with me. So follow me, and if I signal you to stop, stand still."

It's impossible to escape quietly from a house with hardwood floors when wearing heels. Molly wishes she'd read up more on chic outfits for burglars before she came, but Anthea doesn't seem worried about the noise she's making as they head towards the front door.

"Once we're outside, we turn immediately right and keep walking along the road," Anthea says. "I've ordered a car to meet us in a couple of minutes." She squeezes Molly's hand reassuringly. "You've been very brave tonight, Molly."

Her voice is cheery but impersonal, nothing like the passionate woman of quarter of an hour ago; but maybe it's just that her mind's back on her job. And certainly, now they're out of the seclusion of the bathroom, Molly finds herself growing nervous again. As they walk out of the house, she clutches at Anthea's hand for reassurance more than any romantic feelings.

"Here's the car," Anthea says, after a moment, and sure enough, there's a huge black four-by-four stopping just next to them. Molly doesn't normally approve of "Chelsea tractors" in London, but right now it looks wonderfully solid, able to survive anything Irene might plan.  The driver's window slides down.

"Good evening, Miss Anthea," the chauffeur says. He also looks big and solid and able to take on all known threats.

"Hi, Tony," Anthea says brightly. She pulls out her phone, and checks it, even as she carries on: "We're done here for the night, so we need to take Molly home. She lives in Colliers Green. Hop in the back, Molly."

She opens the car door and Molly climbs a little awkwardly in; the car's quite a way off the ground and her legs are suddenly feeling like jelly. In fact, she aches all over and she's exhausted, now the excitement is wearing off. As she fumbles for her seat-belt, Anthea swings the door shut, and suddenly the car is pulling away.

"What are you doing?" Molly demands.

"Taking you home," the driver replies, "just like Miss Anthea says. Don't worry, Miss Hooper, it's all been arranged."

She's not sure what to say, but then Beyoncé sings out on her phone, and there's a text:

_Thanks for all your help with Irene. Tonight was lovely, but I have to get clearance to see you again. The way I want to see you._  
 _A (for Alice originally)_

None of it makes sense to Molly's weary brain. But if she wanted to have things make sense she should never have got involved with a supposedly-dead dominatrix. Let alone with a woman whose real name she didn't even know. As she sits silently in the car, driving through the glittering London streets, the evening's events all start to blur into unreality. Did she really do that? Or was it just a few hours out of time, when Molly disappeared and mirror-universe Molly, who loves girls and doesn't care about consequences, took her place?

***  
 _One month later_

Sherlock comes into the lab at Barts when Molly's setting equipment up there. He's on his own, which is probably just as well; Molly might have had a hysterical fit if she'd seen him and Dr Watson together, after what she's been imagining when she drifts off to sleep for the last four weeks.

There's been no word from Anthea; Molly's starting to wonder if "getting clearance" was just an excuse. Maybe Anthea doesn't want to see her again, or isn't allowed to. But every time she looks at the photo that Irene took of them together, she remembers that at least she has something. The solid knowledge that Anthea, whose name is fake, whom Molly barely knows, is turned on by her. That Molly can break through that cool facade, turn Anthea into need and passion. And when she looks at the other photo, of Irene and her in bed...

She leaves the lab hurriedly, because Sherlock can doubtless recognise the exact expression made by a woman remembering her first cross-dressed same-sex encounter. And will then comment on it in a superior tone of voice. But eventually she creeps back, because...because he's the real thing after all. She still dreams about men, as well as women. At least about Sherlock, and now Sherlock-and-John, which proves that Irene has done something appalling to her subconscious. But maybe if she concentrates on Sherlock, her brain will unscramble itself.

She breathes deeply, trying to calm herself, and then walks back in, plotting a route which will "accidentally" take her behind him, so she can see what he's staring at on the computer screen. Sherlock's normally willing to make some kind of conversation with her about his work, if only to point out how her helpful suggestions are completely wrong. As she walks past, she recognises from the colours on the screen that it's an X-ray, before she registers that no-one's body looks like that. It's more like the images they use for security checking...a suitcase? No, just one rectangular object, she thinks, craning her neck slightly. And then she works out what it is.

"Is that a phone?" she says, and her voice comes out all high and silly, as usual when she's with Sherlock.

"It’s a camera phone," he replies, without bothering to look at her.

"And you’re X-raying it?" _Why do I ask such stupid questions? I know he is._

"Yes, I am." Sherlock's still staring at the screen.

"Whose phone is it?" she asks, and then realises that she knows. It's surely too much of a coincidence that he uses the phrase "camera phone" just like Anthea did. He's still got Irene's phone, hasn't he? He's trying to unlock its secrets.

"A woman’s," he replies.

The Woman's. But she mustn't let on how much she knows about Irene now. She has to keep her mission secret.

"Your girlfriend?" she says hastily, and then thinks: _Help, I shouldn't have said that. Because it suggests that I'm imagining him in bed. Or that I think Irene is his girlfriend because she's obsessed with him, except I'm not supposed to know about Irene, because she's officially dead, and does Sherlock know that or not, and..._

Sherlock frowns. "You think she’s my girlfriend because I’m X-raying her possessions?"

She's coming across as completely mad, but that's better than him guessing. But why isn't he able to deduce what happened? That a month ago she had a threesome with Anthea and Irene, and there are pictures on her own phone to prove it. She mustn't look down at the pocket where her phone is, or he'll _know_. Sherlock can deduce anything. Unless she distracts him.

She laughs nervously and says: "Well, we all do silly things."

"Yes," Sherlock replies automatically, and then his body stills, as his eyes go wide. He's worked it out, hasn't he, in that brilliant brain of his? He lifts his head and looks round at Molly, and he knows everything, of course. She can tell that.

"They _do_ , don’t they?" he announces. " _Very_ silly." And then, at the moment she's about to confess, to tell him the whole truth, he jumps up, and whirls away. Hurries over to the X-ray machine to pull out the phone. Irene's phone.

"She sent this to my address, and she loves to play games," Sherlock says as he types into the phone.

"She does?" Molly says in dismay, because what if Irene's decided that Sherlock might want a souvenir photo from that evening as well? Or...her mind is dizzy at all the embarrassing tricks that Irene might be trying to play. But Sherlock's triumphant look at the phone has changed to exasperation now, and he puts it away and sits back down at the screen again.

He's not looking at her. He hasn't worked out about her. Sherlock Holmes, who can supposedly deduce _anything_ , can't imagine that Molly knows information he doesn't. And as he ignores her, and starts tapping away at the keyboard again, she watches him intently.

He's beautiful and brilliant, of course, but she remembers abruptly what John wrote on his blog once about Sherlock being "spectacularly ignorant". He didn't work out about Jim, or Irene not being dead, or who her Christmas present was for, or...

Or the fact that she's sitting three foot away from him right now, wondering if he'd be as good in bed as Irene pretending to be him. She shouldn't be thinking about that, obviously, but now she is, the thoughts flood in. He's fit and sexy, of course, and his clothes are wonderful, and maybe underneath them he is better-endowed than average, but that's not all that matters, is it?

Because whatever else she's fantasised in the last month, she suddenly can't imagine Sherlock caring where her G-spot is. Or working out exactly what she likes, so he can give it to her. Sherlock in bed with her – with anyone – that's the fantasy, isn't it? Irene as Sherlock is more real by far. That may not make sense, but her body knows it's right.

Her body. Just the memory of Irene, of that night is getting her...horny. Wanting. She is sitting there wanting sex right now, and Sherlock hasn't noticed. And if she stripped naked and went and sat in his lap, he probably still wouldn't notice, and that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with him.

Not that she's going to do that; someone else might come into the lab. And she's a professional, she's at work, she has to behave professionally. She should not be sitting here, thinking about sex. She should be getting on with her job, not...

Not being bad. But she wants to be, it's just nobody but Irene ever realised that before. Not even Molly herself. She pulls out her phone and scrolls down to find Irene's message. For a moment, she wonders if Irene's changed the number since...since she died. Because if not, she may have found the one thing she could do that will get Sherlock's attention. She thinks for a moment about what to say in the text, just in case it is about to appear on the phone not a yard away from her. She needs to make sure that no-one but Irene will understand the message.

_Meet me tonight, same hotel as before. 7.30 pm. I'll give you what you want._  
 _Minnie C._

She types it out and then her hand hovers over the send button. It's not the sort of text that she sends. Not a polite _What would you like to do?_ Or _If you happened to be free_ _tonight_. Not the thing a nice girl writes to anyone, let alone to Irene Adler.

_What am I doing_ , she wonders, and admits to herself it's the wrong message to send. It's not really what she wants, is it? She erases the last sentence and starts to type again.

_Call another truce and I'll give you what you both want._  
 _M_

Then she scrolls down through her contacts, adds Anthea to the recipients list and fires off the text. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't, but she's at least going to try and get them together again. Because bad girls always want more, she thinks. And then she walks out of the lab past Sherlock, smiling sweetly at him as he glares impotently at Irene's old phone.


End file.
